Saturday, May 29, 2010

I've been thinking about poetry. I've been thinking about the lack of true stories in my poems. It's not like I have a lack of horrible stories. I could write about drinking vodka and screwing in a Vegas alley or smoking crack in an Austin, TX sewer. I could write about sitting in a mobile home in Eugene, OR with alcohol poisoning. Alcohol poisoning so bad I couldn't drink but.. are you starting to notice a pattern here?

So few of my poems recount true stories. I'm sure there's a reason I prefer to write through the guise of fiction but I can only guess at what it is. I have my alter ego, Sarah. It took me years before I realized that when I wrote about Sarah I was writing about myself, to a certain extent. She kept stumbling into my poems and she kept pulling the same stunts I like to pull.

It's easier to write fiction than non. I'm a liar by occupation. I lie when I scribble. The strange thing is I very rarely, if ever, lie to my friends. I'd rather people know the truth about me, even if it is ugly. Most of my past is ugly but it's impossible for me to not be exactly the person I am. I don't regret my past because I don't believe in regrets. Every decision you've ever made, good or bad is something you can learn from and therefore become a stronger, better person. Christ, that really does sound cheesy.

I say I lie but everything I have ever written is true in one way or another. If you're reading, chances are you know me but if not, hello. I'll try to keep this updated better than my myspace blog. Here are a couple recent poems:

4/15/10
death threatens my friends in large numbers
i'm healthy but my heart and stomach hurt
i give them my care and comfort
but secretly wonder if i insult them by being well

ignore the police
they'll let you go smooth
smirk at cancer
it might invite you out for tea

i wish i were something bigger
so that fear might never touch your world
but i'm only a man
my hands are frail

i watch the water, i watch the trees
i say a prayer for brave, small things
for survival and health
for sanity kept and renewal by faith

"untitled # 8 (i mean it this time)"

faith wasn't what i was talking about
i never expected to be saved
by anyone or anything
i wanted to go my own way
i fully expected the world to be blown to shit

find me in a waiting room
curled in a corner w/ a cup of coffee
begging in my head for the receptionist to call my name
violently urgent for a cigarette
making my definitive plans and predicting what will upset them

knowing that my curses won't solve anything
but flinging them about all the same
i'll be here waiting for a psychiatrist eternally
and for the next round of laughter
to thrust itself indecently

not even i know what it is i'm talking about
i mumble sad stories
i express gratitude and wish for peace
but i'm only going through the motions
for the sake of my friends and family

I'm sure a shrink would have a field day with these. Ha. What's with me yammering on about faith?